over a week ago I'm fighting against a large field program that I owe to college, all my energy (or most of them) are engaged in desperate attempt to assimilate the knowledge. I long for a time with me to read that JLB Fictions eagerly waiting on the dresser in my room and I'm holding to force my will to write.
Over this time, fully renovated, or at least in the beginning of the change, my will be moved elsewhere. I'm intrigued to explore different topics, I have really wanted to write essays, not yet what, but there are a number of issues that lead to the distance (elections, adolescence, vocation). I think I'm hurt all that more or less I'm leaving behind. I wanted this new journal did not contain many things about me and perhaps my thoughts. Less emotion, more arguments. But, I am studying psychology and my sencible facet can not be tamed yet, I'm in full self-study and I have wanted to say too much.
I'm about to start fully immersed in the difficult adult life that awaits me, and against thought everything so far, I'm happy. Peaceful. Expectantly.
want many things, unlikely to be met mostly, but I want life to surprise me with their money. Stolen Innocence
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